Blackhive
by Dan the Zombie
Summary: W40k - Inquisitor Timmett has arrived on the planet Bizmoe to find that a Daemonhost has his cult rooted far deeper than he could imagine. On the other side of the planet, Inquisitor Quind realizes that being a radical isn't all its cracked up to be.
1. Introduction

**BY ORDER OF HIS MOST HOLY MAJESTY**

**THE GOD-EMPEROR OF TERRA**

**SEQUESTERED INQUISITORIAL DOSSIERS**

**AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY**

CASE FILE 994:11B:WC5:Lrs

Please enter your authority code ********

Validating…

Thank you, Inquisitor.

You may proceed.

**To Lord Drevor Halls Tothor, a communiqué**

**Carried by Guild Astropathica (Sagittarum Minoris) via meme-wave 92~b.524 triple intra**

**Path detail:**

**Origin: Bizmoe, Sagittarum Minoris Sub 44211 origin date: 304.415.M41**

**(relayed: divergent T-19/Minset)**

**Received: Gideron, Clideon Sub 73425 reception date: 313.415.M41**

**Transcript carried and logged as per header**

**(redundant copy filed buffer 10664 key 2)**

_**Author: Inquisitor Alfaron Timmett, Ordo Malleus**_

_My Lord Tothor, the blessings of the ever-vigilant God-Emperor upon you, may his Holy Light shine eternally throughout the dark reaches of the galaxy. This communiqué is of some importance, concerning events that began little more than three days ago, around 301.415._

_ I had been tracking the movements of a daemon-host called Karkiss and his associations with a cult of Nurgle on the planet Bizmoe, when this evening things got a little hairier than I expected. It turns out the cult here on Bizmoe is rooted far more deeply than I have the resources to combat and so I am contacting you to send a large detachment of Imperial Guard to assist. My research tells me that Battlefleet Loki is the closest gathering of Imperial Guard to Bizmoe. I would seek the help of the Arbites or the PDF, but it is clear that the planet is overrun, near to the point of requiring exterminatus._

_ But, like any man of sound judgment I am loathe to resort to such measures. There is perhaps a functioning hive left in Bizmoe, though it will take quite some cleansing to find it. Bizmoe will be a battlefield for many years, my gracious Lord, but the Emperor's Light will shine on it again._

_ Thank you, Lord Tothor, may the Divine Will of the Holy Emperor always light your path._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Alfaron Timmett_

_Ordo Malleus,_

_Sagittarum Minoris Subsector, Sagittarius Extremis_

[message ends]

**To Lord Drevor Halls Tothor, a communiqué**

**Carried by Guild Astropathica (Sagittarum Minoris) via meme-wave 754~l.751 double intra**

**Path detail:**

**Origin: Bizmoe, Sagittarum Minoris Sub 44211 origin date: 304.415.M41**

**(relayed: loop navigatus 214/echo Weyland beacon)**

**Received: Gideron, Clideon Sub 73425 reception date: 313.415.M41**

**Transcript carried and logged as per header**

**(redundant copy filed buffer 64728 key 9)**

_**Author: Inquisitor Nethin Quind, Ordo Malleus**_

_** Sagittarius Extremis Sector, Sagittarius Major**_

_ With all due greetings aside, my Lord Inquisitor Tothor, the hiveworld of Bizmoe is under great peril. While tracking a cult called the Wounds of the Empire, I have come to find that this world is infested with a sickness not seen in this Segmentum. In fact, the only recorded outbreaks of such a plague as the Wounds of the Empire have beset upon this world have only been seen in Segmentum Obscurus on the complete other side of the galaxy!_

_ I thought perhaps of finding out about contacting someone from the Obscurus Inquisition for knowledge of just how to combat this matter effectively, but decided that such a task more befitted a man of your rank. I am just a field worker, and, not holding any illusions to how I am viewed within my own Ordo, do not wish to put a bad face to the Inquisition of the Sagittarius Extremis Sector._

_ All knowledge about the subject aside, it would be best to call in some kind of heavily-armed support, as no one Inquisitor will be able to handle a task of this size. Perhaps calling in the Navy or the Imperial Guard would be sufficient. You may have already inferred that the local PDF has been far less than useful in stopping the threat that this cult poses._

_ Thrones, Lord Tothor._

_Your servant,_

_Nethin Quind, Inquisitor_

[message ends]

**To Nethin Quind, a communiqué**

**Carried by Guild Astropathica (Clideon) via meme-wave 244~o.830 double intra**

**Path detail:**

**Origin: Gideron, Clideon Sub 73425 origin date: 313.415.M41**

**(relayed: divergent M-17/Bastion)**

**Received: Bizmoe, Sagittarum Minoris Sub 44211 reception date: 323.415.M41**

**Transcript carried and logged as per header**

**(redundant copy filed buffer 87935 key 1)**

_**Author: Lord Inquisitor Drevor Halls Tothor**_

_** Master of the Ordo Malleus Sagittarius Extremis,**_

_** Inquisition High Council Officio, Sagittarius Extremis Sector**_

_My faithful servant,_

_ What in the Holy Light of the Golden Throne could be such the matter that I need contact the Imperial Navy to root out a dug-in cult on Bizmoe? If it has reached a point where the Inquisition can no longer serve its purpose in and of itself, even to the point where it would overwhelm the Inquisitional Guard to take action, then a proper report must be filed._

_ It does not support any of your requests to be so vague. As your leader I try very hard not to hold your methods against you (unless of course they interfere with the laws set forth by the Administratum and our own Inquisition) but you cannot expect me to be able to send any kind of substantial armed force to Bizmoe without due cause._

_ If the situation is truly urgent, then it must be made clear exactly why military forces need to be deployed._

_ Inquisitor Timmett is also working on Bizmoe. Contact him and see what you can work out together, from his communiqués it sounds like you are working different ends of the same case._

_The Emperor Protects._

_Lord Inquisitor D.H. Tothor,_

_Master of the Ordo Malleus Sagittarius Extremis_


	2. Chapter One

**Bizmoe**

**Hive 37**

**301.415.M41**

The Weeping Towers of Hive 37 were tall black silhouettes against the orange setting sun of Bizmoe. The cool autumn air blew the banners hanging from the crenellated structures gently, power lines and communication wires twanging in the breeze. Hallowcan decorations filled the windows of the hive, little shrines to ward away daemons and other monstrosities piling up as was tradition on Bizmoe.

On the outside of the Weeping Towers were two enormous water veins, pumping into the indoor waterfalls for which the towers were named. The waterfalls themselves were a kilometer deep, artfully designed so that they were not only pleasing to the eye but so they also provided coolness to the temperature. The insides of the towers were decked in the finery typical of upper hive levels, used primarily by Ministorum adepts who went to the tops of the towers to meditate and pray.

Inquisitor Timmett could see the towers from his landing bay on the other side of Hive 37. As the door behind his rented yacht slowly shut, he blink-clicked a pictograph of the towers against the setting sun. That was for his private collection.

A servitor skull buzzed up to him and piped out a demand for payment. The old inquisitor's chiseled brow furrowed and he pulled out a credit bar in the name of one of his alternate identities and waved it in front of the skull. Its scanners registered the card and confirmed payment, and it buzzed off about its other tasks.

Timmett was wearing black trousers with his IG-issued boots, a hand-me-down pair he had received when his brother died fighting Tyranids some decades back and a gilded brass cuirass over a black top. He covered himself with a wide crimson cloak, which he felt sufficiently disguised his armor and the bolt pistol holstered beneath his left shoulder.

He locked the aft hatch of the yacht he had rented, a long smooth white machine of native origin, and left the landing bay. Behind him, he saw the bay's servitors attaching charging cables to the fuselage.

Quietly, Timmett slid into a private vox-link booth off the ascending hallway to the spaceport lobby. He keyed in the private code to contact Hugo Rikk, the operative he had sent to Bizmoe in advance to ensure that the daemon-host he was tracking did indeed have a presence on the hive world. Not only had Rikk confirmed that the daemon-host Timmett knew as Karkiss was a presence here on Bizmoe, he had uncovered the sorcerers who had summoned the daemon-host and the cult to which they belonged.

Rikk had brought with him his apprentice, Carla Welth, a young Cadian girl with enough determination to become a Kasrkin if she had wanted to be. But fate had brought her across the galaxy to the Sagittarum Minoris subsector, where Rikk had picked her up and she had become part of Timmett's staff.

The line buzzed four times before Rikk answered.

"The gun needs ammo, the hand will need amputation soon," Rikk said as soon as he was on the line.

"Neg the ammo," answered Timmett. "The whole hand needs amputation?"

They spoke in a private code that Timmett had derived from his own common speech. Though the code seemed plain enough, it became more complex as it needed to be.

"The whole hand on the block," responded Rikk. "Three mids, the arm. The gun needs ammo."

Things were far worse than Timmett had expected upon arrival, though he needed more clarification as to what exactly the rush was. Within three days the problem would be even worse, and he would have something even bigger to deal with. Was Karkiss enacting a plan so quickly?

"Ay see kay, reload imminent but put glass on the scar," said Timmett. "The scar needs full-size caretakers, grip miniatures in the primary."

"Ay see kay, miniatures in the primary," confirmed Rikk.

Timmett closed the line and sat in the booth, considering what he already knew.

He had first started hunting the daemon-host Karkiss four years before on the planet Lemdis. He had discovered that the daemon had been haunting the planet's capitol Brightcourt and spreading a viral epidemic there which was causing the working class to die off in droves. When Timmett had attempted to confront the daemon-host, the creature was called back into an anchor device and he was taken off-world.

Timmett tracked the anchor's warp signature across the Sagittarum Minoris subsector for the better part of a year before finding and eliminating a cult of Tzeentch to which Karkiss had seemed to belong. With the elimination of the cult, Karkiss's tether to his anchor had been severed and the daemon-host had been able to flee the planet again in the company of the cult's arch-priest, Serxis.

It had taken Timmett more than two years to track down Serxis, and only came to discover that he had been left for dead in the craft which he had used to escape from the inquisitor before. Karkiss was seemingly gone. That is, of course, until the word had reached Timmett's ears about the Carcass of the Grandfather cult that was taking hold in the underhives of Bizmoe. The name itself was too much of a coincidence, but a little digging from his savant, Edoir, had discovered that the Carcass of the Grandfather was daemon worship aimed at pleasing a deity known as the Carcass. It could only have been the escaped daemon-host.

Now that Timmett knew he was close to the answers he had searched for for some time, he had come to learn that the cult he had been tracking was far better off than he had previously imagined. He would have to meet with Rikk and Welth and find out exactly what they knew so that he could send any pertinent data to Edoir to be analyzed.

Exiting the booth, he nearly ran into a short man with enormous green eyes and a polished silver vox amplifier instead of a mouth. His head was completely bald, and had large cables running from the sides to his back, spine and shoulders. A pair of mechadendrites extended from his back, poking out through the back of the man's purple velvet robes.

"My apologies," said Timmett, trying to edge past the man.

"Your apologies are accepted," the man replied in a monotonous electrical tone. "But I believe it was simply my own presence within close proximity to the private booth's door which caused you discomfort."

"Indeed," nodded Timmett, and he began to walk off. The half-mechanical followed him.

"May I ask where you are headed, Sir?" asked the man. There was a slight hum to his monotone when he spoke, which Timmett assumed meant the man must have been pleased with himself.

"Didn't you need to use the vox-link?" spat Timmett.

"Negative, Sir," the man answered. Timmett spun on him.

"Then what do you want?"

The half-mechanical stopped suddenly, his eyes bulging in fear. When he spoke, however, his tone was the same. "Sir, you are causing my anxiety level to rise 83%. May I ask you to level your tone?"

"You certainly may not!" barked Timmett. "Who the hell are you and why are you following me?"

"My name is Adept Lucian Alfexus," the man took a step backwards, the multi-faceted manipulators at the ends of his mechadendrites gyrating furiously. "I am a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, dispatched from the Transit Corps Engineering department. I have been sent to find the vacationer Timmethy Alaron, and you match his pheromone trace."

Timmett thought for a moment, looking the adept up and down. Alfexus seemed to calm down a little with Timmett's silence, his manipulators slowing down in their gyrations some.

"What the hell do you want?" Timmett asked. "I didn't call for a Mechanicus adept."

"Perhaps not, Sir," intoned Alfexus. "But the servitors recharging your rented vehicle have found several anomalous materials in your energy tanks that could not be identified. When I discovered them, I was truly fascinated to find that they were psychoreactive substances that fail to dilute the ship's fuel to the point of inoperability. Please inform me why it is that you added these psychoreactive substances to your vehicle?"

Timmett's heart froze. "I added nothing to the vehicle," he said. "What do you think it could mean, Adept?"

"Well, Sir, I would expect one could quite easily trace the emotional signature of the substances through the fabric of the warp," said Alfexus flatly. "But such practices are of course against the law. If you cannot provide me with the proper authorization for such techniques, I'm afraid you will have to be detained by the Arbites for questioning."

Timmett thought for a moment before collecting himself. "First of all, your quarrel is with the Goldline Luxury Cruiser Rentals, not with me. I have already said that I did not add anything to my ship's fuel and so the fault must lie with the rental company."

Alfexus's manipulators began to gyrate again and he raised a hand slightly as though he were about to say something, but Timmett interrupted.

"Secondly, you will contact the Arbites about such a matter and send them to the doorstep of Goldline." Alfexus blinked in clear surprise.

"Confirmed, Sir," replied Alfexus.

"Anything else?" asked Timmett.

"Negative, Sir," answered the Adept. He remained where he was.

"Well I am leaving then," said Timmett, and he turned to stalk off back up the hallway towards the lobby.

After a moment, Alfexus stepped into a vox-link booth.


	3. Chapter Two

**Hive 13**

**302.415.M41**

Quind looked down the alley, the dim torchlight barely denting the imposing darkness. The smell of rotted corpses was thick here, worse even than the corrupted smell of human waste and decaying metals. He looked at the autogun in his hands, which showed that there were only five shots remaining. He tightened the red dot sight he had attached to the top of the weapon and brought the rifle to his shoulder.

The sounds of hoarse moans echoed through the musty black streets of the underhive, the only sounds apart from the occasional dripping of leaky pipe work or faulty power nodes. Dust and trash formed a thick layer of debris beneath Quind's feet and the pavement that had been laid down so long ago, not seen in more than a century due to underfunded clean-up efforts.

Quind was tall and thin, though he looked bulky in the ceramite power armor he had donned. The power cells on his armor were running dry, and he had perhaps a half an hour left. On his side was his chainsword, The Bloodculler, which had been a gift from an Astartes he once had the fortune to work alongside. On his other hip, a copy of a tome about daemon-hunting written by the Horusian Inquisitor Reeth Sindrite hung by a leather strap. He had used the book to stop several powerful cults before, but the presence of its simple brown leather cover often made other inquisitors look upon him in disgust.

Shuffling footsteps from behind him made him turn around suddenly, and the motion tracker built into his power armor began ticking away towards a closed bar down the street. He kept his red dot scanning back and forth slowly down the street as he crept forwards towards the bar.

He had wound up lost in the underhive of Hive 13 as he pursued a cultist into its foul depths. But soon all had turned to hell as he was attacked by multiple shambling humanoid creatures that smelled of the long dead and were decayed from the inside out. Blasting away at them with his autogun or simply eviscerating them with Bloodculler was simply not enough. He had wasted four magazines figuring out that he had to destroy their heads.

Now he was stuck, unable to determine exactly which way he had come down to the bottom of the hive, and unable to figure out exactly what it was that had turned the underhive into such a monstrous place. And his suit was rapidly draining power, which meant that if he didn't escape soon he would be nearly naked fighting perhaps an entire underhive worth of cannibalistic monsters.

A dry, cracked shriek issued forth from the bar, and the sharp report of Quind's autogun followed as one of the creatures darted out of the establishment towards the inquisitor. In a gory spray of black and brown effluvia, the top of the monster's head disintegrated and its body dropped to the floor. Two more shots and two more monsters that had followed their shrieking leader were down as well. Two rounds left.

Quind's personal vox-link crackled with static.

"Repentant?" whispered Quind into his vox. "Can you hear me?"

More static crackled through, with breaks of Repentant's voice unintelligibly mumbling through.

"Repentant, if you can hear me, I am trapped in the underhive," said Quind. "My power armor is dying and I require immediate extraction. Contact Penitent and have him bring the speeder down here if he can."

Repentant and Penitent were Quind's two faithful henchmen. Repentant was large and good with guns and electronics, but he was a blank and couldn't be affected by the influence of the warp. Penitent was an A-level rogue psyker that had been captured from his backwater tribal world when he was a young shaman. He was never sanctioned by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, even after he had entered the service of Inquisitor Quind. Quind went to great lengths to hide his prized psyker from the Imperium.

The shots that Quind had fired seemed to have attracted more monsters, which began to shamble steadily from the surrounding buildings as they sought out the cause of the noise. Quind did a quick headcount. There were no less than thirty on the street now, on all sides of him, and still more pouring from the buildings. One jumped out of a window on a second story and crashed awkwardly into the ground, splattering there. Where it landed, its broken form still twitched and moaned.

"Repentant, I need extraction now!" cried Quind as he dropped the autogun on its sling and drew Bloodculler. With a flip of a switch it roared to life and he could feel its reassuring vibrations in his hand. The hilt was engraved with the seal of the Ultramarines, a wreathed Omega. One of Quind's rivals said it was heresy to wield an Ultramarine weapon when one was a Horusian, but Quind didn't mind. He knew that he was doing the Emperor's work, even if he was using chaos against itself.

The moaning crowd of monsters tightened around the Inquisitor, and he looked for the thinnest line of the beasts. He could feel his suit beginning to lose power, its movements becoming more sluggish as it strained the last life out of his power cells. He figured he had maybe fifteen or twenty minutes left, optimistically.

He swung Bloodculler in a high horizontal arc as the creatures closed in on him, grabbing at his arms. The chainsword blazed easily through the rotted skulls of the monsters in front of him, sending chunky brown flesh everywhere. A rear thrust caught an attacker that had tried latching onto the Inquisitor's leg, the sprayed gore from the decapitated monster shooting up into the vents of the power armor's generator.

Quind cursed as the suit's power core coughed nastily, and he jerked his arm back forward towards the oncoming creatures at his twelve o'clock. He pushed forward through the grabbing monsters, hacking with Bloodculler as much as he could. Severed limbs dropped to the ground and he trampled them, feeling the spongy bones melt beneath the weight of the power armor. He almost shuddered realizing he was waiting for the crack of bone that wouldn't come.

He was slowed immensely as one of the creatures latched onto the autogun on its sling and he began to pull the monster along with him. Pulling the rifle up with his free hand, he obliterated the attached monstrosity with Bloodculler. Quind dropped the autogun again and swept around him with his chainsword, severing the grasping manipulators of his foes.

His power armor's generator coughed again, and the vox-link crackled tantalizingly. Quind was breathing heavily as he forced the armor to continue moving, continue swinging Bloodculler in vicious arcs at his pressing foes. But his movement was too slow now, and it wasn't long before he felt many hands pulling on him in all directions.

"Repentant!" called Quind into the vox.

"There you are," responded the deep tones of Repentant over the vox-link. Despite Quind's momentary relief, his heart was still pounding as the creatures attempted to bore into his power armor with their teeth.

"Where in the blasted bloody Eye of Terror are you?" screamed Quind.

"Right here," answered Repentant's calm voice, and he could hear the blasting of heavy stubber fire from not too far away. Quind watched as monsters around him were blown to pieces by the stubber fire, reduced to only halves of monsters. The grip on Quind's armored form loosened as the monsters on Quind's flanks were blown away.

With the tiny bit of freedom, Quind was able to use the last of his armor's power to slice across the creatures to his front. Their top halves, separated from their bottoms, slithered forward on their arms to come back for the Inquisitor.

The massive form of Repentant, nearly the size of an Astartes himself, stepped forward into the mess, inadvertently crushing the spines and skulls of the monsters he stepped on.

"How much power do you have left in your suit?" Repentant asked.

"None," answered Quind. "Get me out of this thing. Where is –"

To finish his question, Quind's black speeder raced around the corner, Penitent's heavily lined dark face and long white beard clearly visible even in the poor light. His face was pierced with various pieces of bones and metal, and he had tattoos that ran up the middle of his face until just above his brow where they split into a Y.

"This is far more serious than I thought," grumbled Quind as Repentant helped him out of the power armor. "This entire underhive has been laid to waste with something I've never seen before. Whatever the Wounds of the Empire has been planning, it's more dangerous than we could ever have imagined."

"We discovered something else," said Repentant as he hefted the empty power armor over one shoulder. "Penitent says their psyker, Modus Pons, is an Alpha-plus. And that he tried to recruit Penitent to his cult."

Quind grunted acknowledgment, climbing into the speeder behind Penitent.

"Tell me about this Modus Pons, Penitent," said Quind. "What did he say to you?"

Repentant stowed the power armor and climbed in the speeder opposite Quind.

"Modus Pons told me that in two days this world will become one big playground for psykers like us," said Penitent as they pulled away into the underhive tunnels. "He recognized my power for what it was, and could sense from my spirit that I am not Imperially sanctioned."

"Hallowcan. And what did you tell him?" asked Quind coolly.

"I told him I'd be glad to help, of course," answered Penitent. "The closer we can get to Modus Pons the easier it will be to bring the Wounds of the Empire down from within."

"Excellent," said Quind. "But I don't want you anywhere near Modus Pons or the Wounds of the Empire. The same goes for you, Repentant."

Repentant looked genuinely shocked, but said nothing.

"Whatever it is that the Wounds of the Empire is planning is far beyond just our means," explained Quind. "If we try to interfere with just the three of us we will be torn to pieces, as I almost was moments ago. Working in small numbers is good in some cases, but not this one."

The speeder passed through into the better-lit mid levels of the hive, the streets becoming significantly cleaner beneath the roaring black vehicle.

"What we need to do now is contact the PDF and have them cordon off the underhive here in Hive 13," continued Quind. "We cannot risk the rest of the Hive's population by leaving them exposed to the disease running rampant in the streets of the underhive. The issue is no longer gangers and delinquent juvies, its flesh-devouring monstrosities. Which I need to find precedent for, by the way."

Repentant looked dumbfounded down at his rifle, unable to supply any answers to his boss. Penitent remained silent as he steered the speeder up into the lodge districts of the middle hive.

"Repentant, that will be your job," Quind told the massive untouchable. "Do some research, find out if there have been any other cases of such a plague and write me a carta requisitioning use of the planetary defense force. We're going to have to play by the book a little more on this one."


	4. Chapter Three

**Hive 37**

Edoir sat at the pict screen watching the detailed news feed anxiously. He was tapping away at a dataslate in front of him, picking out codes which he claimed only he could see. That was the trouble with Edoir: he was a cryptophiliac. Unlike some savants who were dataphiles, gorging themselves purely on information, Edoir was convinced there was code in everything and it was his sacred duty to decipher it. His penchant for code deciphering made him an excellent savant, though he could be painstakingly slow at times.

Rikk sat on the other side of the room, cleaning his bolter studiously at a table. Welth was busy taking a shower, singing Cadian war chants loudly and out of tune while she did so.

Timmett had arrived flustered the day prior and demanded that their room be changed immediately. They moved all the way across the upper hive to a suite in a hotel near the base of the Weeping Towers, and settled there.

Rikk had filled Timmett in on Karkiss's latest movements, his apparent new owner, and the activities of the Carcass of the Grandfather cultists. There was apparently some large event going on in their underhive chapels on Hallowcan's Eve, though exactly what it was hadn't yet been determined.

Vicious riots had been happening frequently in Hive 37's underbelly for the past month, and the Arbites had blocked off entrance to all personnel so Rikk and Welth had not yet been down to the underhive. Timmett had planned on seeing what it was all about, and had gone out to meet with the head Chastener of the local arbites unit.

"Hey!" called Edoir from the pict viewer. "Rikk, come see this. I think this is pertinent to our case."

Rikk sighed and hefted his bolter onto the table. He trudged over to look over Edoir's shoulder, rubbing his eyes.

"What is it?" Rikk asked.

"The news reported that arbites units trying to gain control of the rioting underhive have had to protect themselves from some kind of chemical warfare," said Edoir.

"So where's the code in that?"

"There is no code," said Edoir, "but if we're dealing with a cult called Carcass of the Grandfather, I think it's safe to assume that they are worshippers of the Lord of Decay."

"Karkiss is the Lord of Decay?"

"No, genius," scolded Edoir. Rikk crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Karkiss is a servant of Grandfather Nurgle, the Lord of Decay."

"Ah," said Rikk. "Grandfather Nurgle. Karkiss of the Grandfather. Clever."

"Not really," said Edoir dismissively. "But at least we know that whatever Karkiss and his cult are up to, it's likely not very different from what we caught him doing in Brightcourt."

"Fair enough," said Rikk.

"Only this time," Edoir turned from the pict viewer to look up into Rikk's eyes. "This time the virus is incredibly malignant."

Rikk nodded. "And how was it not incredibly malignant before? The virus in Brightcourt killed people in a matter of hours."

"That was a virus that was malignant just to the host," said Edoir, wagging a finger. "I mean this virus is turning hosts into malignant carriers."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that we've got a whole underhive full of sick homicidal maniacs."

"That's bad."

Welth came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, wiping her face with a towel.

"What's bad?" she asked.

********

Timmett sat across from the Chastener, scratching his chin. He had been trying to get a report on the anomalous materials found in the Goldline vehicle he had rented, but so far the fat Head Chastener had been far less than helpful. They had bandied about different politics, the Chastener dodging every attempt at acquiring information that the inquisitor put forward.

The Chastener himself was overlarge and pale, dressed in a black ceremonial jacket lined with medals of long service to Bizmoe. Large purple bags hung underneath his eyes, to which he attributed to a lack of sleep, and his large thermos of caffeine did nothing to dispel such a story. The Chastener's skin was greasy and sweaty, though the room they were in was perfectly climate controlled.

The Chastener leaned forward in his seat, which creaked ominously under his weight.

"Look, Mr. Timmett," he said, his voice thick with mucus, "I'm a very busy man. Of all the reports that have come through my office in the past week, we've not had one complaint from the Transit Corps about hazardous materials. I've told you, and I don't know what else you want from me."

The Chastener leaned back and sneezed violently into his arm.

"Chastener," said Timmett, standing up. "I can be a very patient man. I can also be very persuasive. This is because, unlike you, I am not an idiot who gained my position through years of service. But I digress, for I am not here to compare my job to yours.

"You are very clearly lying to me, Chastener. You are clearly very ill, though with what I do not know. In my previous case history this likely means that you are compromised, but seeing as there is no direct correlation at this point between you and my quarry you are merely coincidentally ill. You will stand down after this meeting and seek medicae help.

"After you have been treated today, we will meet and you will tell me all about what your men found at the Goldline Luxury Cruiser Rentals facility. Do I make myself clear?"

The Chastener giggled to himself. "That was quite an impressive speech, Inquisitor. If it will get you out of my office, I'll do what I can."

"Not exactly what I want to hear, but it will have to do," said Timmett. "Until later, Chastener."

The Chastener grumbled something and Timmett left.

Outside, Timmett called up Rikk and learned about the underhive.

"The Chastener's been infected," Timmett said.

"Then we can't count on the Arbites for much longer," replied Rikk over the vox.

Timmett shook his head, walking to the motorcycle that Rikk had rented as his own transportation. The Inquisitor removed his crimson cloak and folded it into a stowage box behind the seat.

"We'll have to call in the PDF," sighed Timmett. "Draw me up a carta, as soon as you can. Make sure there are explicit instructions that they are to use chemical warfare tactics."

"If they're lucky enough to have had that training," said Rikk.

"Why wouldn't they?" asked Timmett, gunning the motorcycle down the tunnel.

"Lots of PDFs are undertrained," Rikk explained. "It is unlikely that the local military will have had much chemical warfare training unless they've had a history of chemical problems."

"We'll do the best we can," Timmett said.

The streets of the upper hive were wide and populated, and Timmett was able to get a good feel for the sheer multitude of people that called Hive 37 home. Hive 37, the largest hive complex on Bizmoe, the planet's capitol and home of the Ecclesiarchy's precious Weeping Towers, the supposed burial place of St. Lesandorus. It had a population of just over three billion, and that was only the upper level. There was a further four billion in the lower and underhive, making Hive 37 the largest hive in the subsector.

If Karkiss's plan came to fruition in the next two days, there would be no saving Bizmoe.


	5. Chapter Four

**Hive 13**

**303.415.M41**

Quind wiped the sweat off of his brow. Above him, the gloglobe that hung from the ceiling swayed in wide arcs; the rumble of the passing intra-hive train system shook the small apartment every few minutes and kept the gloglobe in regular motion. Apart from the poor quality yellow light from the overhead globe, the room he was in was pitch.

He sat with his legs crossed in the center of the room, trying to concentrate on recalling what his master had taught him to do in such situations. It was still early in the morning, but he knew he had little time and no more solid leads.

Penitent had been thus far unable to track anything other than the wailing psychic turmoil of the zombie horde in the underhive. The cultists of the Wounds of the Empire were hiding amongst the victims of their malpractice, if they hadn't fallen victim to their own schemes themselves.

Repentant had had a similar lack of success in achieving assistance from the PDF. Apparently they were already deployed across several other hives, and stretched far too thin. Even when the large untouchable had utilized his master's inquisitorial seal, he found that the logistics of the planet's PDF simply would not work. There were too many citizens and not enough soldiers. Hive 13 had just over two billion civilians in total, and was considered to be one of the smaller hives on Bizmoe. The entire PDF for the planet numbered just under thirteen billion.

Evidently there was some planet-wide insurrection that had managed to stay eerily quiet, the upper echelons of Imperial society choosing to pretend that there was no problem but still deploying their defense force liberally across the hives. Soon Hives One through Eighty-Four had entire divisions of PDF deployed, and they were still losing.

Quind had fumed about that for some time. A small voice in the back of his head told him that he'd have to call in help from his brothers and sisters in the Inquisition, but he knew there would be little in the way of a favorable response since his last endeavors. He had nearly been called hereticus and diabolus extremis by his former ally, and when confronted Quind had been forced to kill his former partner. He proved himself pure afterwards, but the murder of his comrade still haunted him and his reputation.

There was a quiet knocking at the door and Penitent stuck his head in the door. The beads that hung from his long tight braids clinked together as he entered the room fully and bowed. Coming straight down from the bow, Penitent dropped to his knees and raised his hands in prayer.

"Forgive me, my Graceful Host, Power Among Powers, the Everlasting and Righteous God-Emperor," said Penitent, his head still bowed. "I was born into the black tides of chaos, and Your Holiest of Holy Lights brings me to your side. Through the warp I have done horrid things, for which I now correct myself. That is why I am named Penance, for I forever serve Your Will to atone for the heresies of my birthright."

Quind beckoned his associate closer after he had finished his prayer. Penitent stood and approached the Inquisitor slowly.

"What is it, Penitent?" Quind asked.

"I have discovered a lead," Penitent replied. "Her name is Ruthe Delander, she is a sorceress of some renown within her cult, but I would estimate her real power is actually very limited. She rose from the underhive ten minutes ago, and seems to be on a direct route for the Yillview Apartment blocks on the southeast end of the hive."

Yillview was a wealthier district, lower in the hive than most of the rich preferred to go, but it provided a beautifully re-created view of the Yill River that ran along the southern edge of Hive 13.

"Any idea what she's up to?" Quind inquired.

"She is likely setting up a very poor trap," said Penitent. "It was made very clear to me who she was and where she was going. The intentions I felt in her are malignant, but unclear. I could get no clear picture of her true nature."

"Has Repentant found any success with the PDF?"

"No."

Quind closed his eyes and thought. Trap or no, this Delander woman was his only lead.

"Shall I prepare the speeder, Lord?" Penitent asked.

"Their alpha-plus, Modus Pons," said Quind, "he knows who you are and knows that you work for me. You're staying back, Penitent."

Penitent looked surprised, but nodded obediently. "Yes, my Lord."

"I will take Repentant with me in a taxi, and you will leave after us, in our speeder," Quind explained. "You will make as though you are going to meet this Delander with treasonous thoughts on your mind. But you will keep me informed by vox-link of where exactly this witch is. With any luck, we can get Modus Pons out of the picture, and that's something."

********

Within an hour, all was ready and Repentant was riding alongside Quind in a taxi speeder heading towards Yillview. Repentant had let his facial hair grow into wide swaths across his cheeks, his small beard braided below his chin. He had strapped a copy of the _Letictio Divinatus_ to his forehead, and was holding his heavy stubber close to his chest. He had several different kinds of grenades in a harness across his chest, outside of the pure white robes he always wore. As was his standard, his hood was up and shadowing his massive features. Under his breath, he was uttering battle hymns.

Quind was wearing a black leather bodyglove, Bloodculler strapped to his side and his autogun rested between his legs with the barrel facing to the floor. His daemon-hunting tome was strapped opposite The Bloodculler, and a vox-link booster hung beside it on his belt. His features were drawn and he sat in silence, trying to look like another hired thug next to Repentant.

The taxi driver had asked no questions about the two heavily-armed individuals getting into his vehicle, especially when Repentant had thrown in a few extra Thrones for his troubles. The tinted windows of the speeder stayed rolled up, blocking out most of the blue fluorescent light of the mid-level hive tunnels.

Quind's vox-link beeped, and the Inquisitor accepted the transmission from Penitent.

"_Ehwl yih f'tangh,_" said the shaman over the vox-link. He spoke in his native tribal tongue, which was next to extinct thanks to xenos encroachment in his home sector. Penitent had taught it to Repentant and Quind as a secret code they would use in tactical situations.

"_T'nith ehwl daugh,"_ answered Quind. "_Lihf rynn cote: ervhael."_

"_Sangiht,"_ came Penitent's confirmation.

Delander had reached a brothel near Yillview, and was purchasing an escort for the evening. Quind had instructed Penitent to leave at this point, making a beeline for the brothel.

Having followed the conversation, Repentant fished out a few more Thrones from his pocket and threw them the driver's way.

"I'm in an awful hurry," Repentant said. The driver floored the accelerator and the taxi lurched forward.

If, as Quind was hoping, Modus Pons was trying to trap the Inquisitor with his pet psyker then he wouldn't be able to sense his movement with Repentant. But if he already knew so much about Penitent, it was probable that Modus Pons was aware of Repentant's presence as well.

It took ten more minutes to arrive in the Yillview apartment block. The tunnels here were brightly decorated with Hallowcan decorations, orange and black with silhouettes of smiling clowns and other festival personalities painted on them.

"If I was looking for a good time here in Yillview, and someone who can satisfy a man's needs, where would you take me?" asked Repentant, taking on the role of the leader. Quind smirked quietly to himself and relaxed as his servant took control.

The driver chuckled. "I suppose I'd take you to Madame Ulster's on Glory Avenue," he answered.

"Then take us there," Repentant told him.

Quind activated his vox-link. "_Ehwl loth, yih sihff Ulsteray? Lienne jahara."_

It took a moment for Penitent to answer. "_Sangiht, Ulsterith/Lienne jahara."_

Repentent smiled beneath his hood. Penitent had just confirmed the location of their target.

********

The brothel itself was well-disguised, made to appear an elegant establishment built into the upper-scale Yillview neighborhood. The sign that hung from the wall was hand-cut from wood, lit by antique-styled lamps above the entrance. The windows were covered with intricate red lace curtains that blocked the view inside but gave the distinct impression of a lady's undergarments.

As the Inquisitor and his servant stepped from the taxi, Quind made one more call to Penitent.

"_Wistahl, Delanderay,_" he said.

Within a moment, he was struck with the image of a young woman, aged horribly by excessive exposure to the warp. Her dark brown hair was long and wild, her face sunken and heavily lined. Her eyes had become light brown, almost gray, and there was a demented glee in them. She wore a rebreather mask that covered the lower half of her face, and she wore a utilitarian bodyglove as though she had done heavy labor her entire life. The bodyglove hung loose on her emaciated body, however, and she appeared more like a fierce abuser of obscura than a psyker of any level. Ruthe Delander.

Quind took quick note of the street around them as Repentant paid the taxi driver for their full fare. There were remarkably few people here, just a few drunken men stumbling home off duty in the opposite direction and a woman who was asleep in a pile of trash on the corner. Despite Madame Ulster's attempts to maintain a classy look to her establishment, the street still appeared to be on the edge of the underhive.

Repentant led the way inside the brothel, the heady aromas of thick fruity perfumes descending on the men's senses as they stepped into the pink foyer. The walls were pink plush, the floor a matching pink shag. A man immediately inside asked the pair to remove their boots for the sake of the carpet.

Quind looked him up and down. He was a very low-level servant, probably coming up from the underhive to work here. His face was painted white and he had several small silver rings in his right ear. There was a softness to his face, and Quind guessed the man was likely in his early thirties. He wore an expensive suit of burgundy velvet, an elegant ruffled collar puffing out at his throat.

"Of course," Quind said, casually slinging his autogun and making a clear effort to shift The Bloodculler to remove his large black boots.

Repentant looked down at his boss, and mimicked him. He leaned the heavy stubber against a plush wall and removed his boots.

The servant seemed to care little for their firearms, and picked up their boots. Quind cleared his throat and pulled his autogun into his hands.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Quind asked, and then raked back the slide on his weapon.

The servant merely looked at Quind as though he were asking the time of day and blinked a few times. "Sir? What name shall I place these boots under?"

Quind looked at Repentant, who shrugged.

"Put them under the name Forgiver," Quind said, and he lowered his weapon.

"Yes, Sir," said the servant, and he whisked the boots away into another room.

"There's something incredibly odd about that man," stated Quind simply.

Repentant picked up his heavy stubber and led the way into the spacious lounge area, where several ladies were casually talking and smoking lho sticks. The spicy smell of obscura hung heavily in the air, and a light woodwind tune piped quietly from speakers set all around the room. The lounge was a deep purple, the walls lined with over-large pillows on which were draped scantily-clad employees. Oil paintings of nude women decorated the walls in gilded gold-leaf frames.

A short elderly woman with expensive augments for eyes approached, her dark gray hair stacked in a high bun on her head. She wore a loose-fitting crimson robe which still somehow failed to hide her ample bosom, and she held a massive emerald ledger in the crook of her left arm.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said in a piping sing-song voice. "I am Madame Ulster. What may I do for you?"

Quind extended his hand to shake hers, and Repentant pretended to be preoccupied gazing at the employees that were laid out on the pillows.

"I think I'd like to browse, if it's all the same, Madame," Quind said. "I believe my colleague agrees."

"Of course," replied Madame Ulster, bowing slightly. "Make yourselves comfortable, I will be here all day."

Quind smiled, and the pair spread out to engage themselves in meaningless conversation with a pair of women. All the while, Quind kept his eye out for Delander.

After a moment, Penitent entered the lounge dressed in a traveler's overcoat. He wore his braids tied back into a large ponytail, his demeanor that of a businessman seeking respite. He clapped his hands together as Madame Ulster approached him. They exchanged a few words, and he was led back into a dark hallway behind a beaded doorway.

Once they were gone, Quind politely excused himself from the company of the girl he had been talking to, a long-legged girl with black and purple hair. She protested some, rubbing her hand across his chest, but he simply smiled and left.

He could feel the psychic tension increase for a moment; feel Penitent and Delander meeting each other with mutual distrust. Soon, however, the distrust faded and the tension dispersed. Approaching Repentant, he placed a hand on the untouchable's shoulder.

"_Quith diluta,_" Quind whispered to his servant.

Repentant nodded, and Quind left the building. Once outside, he activated his vox-link and listened in on Penitent's conversation with his own microphone on mute.

"…was hoping you would change your mind," he heard a soft voice say. Quind decided it must be Delander. There were some kissing noises, but who was performing the gestures was unclear. Delander moaned gently in pleasure.

"The Imperium only offers restrictions," said Penitent. "They make me forego my sacred heritage and disregard my abilities. I have to stay in hiding, hoping this Inquisitor will protect me."

"But you can kill him so easily," replied Delander. "Just… Pop! And there he goes!"

"It is not dignified for my people," spat Penitent. "A death for him must be met in honorable combat. I will kill him in a _shei hajh: _a noble assassination."

Delander moaned softly again, and said something indistinct. "Modus Pons wants to meet you," she said. "Would you like to meet him?"

"Very much so," replied Penitent. "When can we meet?"

"How about now?" answered Delander, and she cackled. There was a short scream from a third party – a female, and then a long silence. Quind heard Penitent shudder.

"Modus Pons?" Penitent asked.

The voice that answered was distorted, hissing through the vocal chords of the woman who had been with them. "I am so glad to meet you, Ichnee Ymgard. I regret that I am otherwise unable to greet you in person."

"Of course," replied Penitent. He had not used his given name in many years, and Quind knew he must feel uncomfortable with it. "Security is of the utmost importance."

"Indeed," agreed Pons. "For that reason, could you deactivate your vox-link? I think it is time that Nethin Quind stopped listening in on our private conversation."

There was a brief silence, and then the vox-link shut off.


	6. Chapter Five

**Hive 37**

**303.415.M41**

Darkness descended on the mid-level of the hive as the massive generators in the underhive wound down to lifelessness. Thousands of workers were at work trying to get the backup generators on the mid-level to function, but several hours of work had proved fruitless. The newsreels reported the riots to be at their highest levels of violence yet, and a PDF unit had been deployed in an attempt to contain the riots.

Timmett activated his torch wand, tapping on the codifier's power rune several times before deciding it wasn't going to work. The air inside the hive had become rapidly hot and stagnant, the recycling units ceasing to function as the power failed.

The inquisitor stood in a great black leather overcoat in the Arbites librarium of the mid-hive Arbites station in Formal T. Though the Arbites had continued to be infuriatingly counter-productive to the inquisitor's purpose, their librarium offered information about previous encounters with the cult which he could not get anywhere else. He had learned very little that morning before the power failures occurred.

Behind him, Rikk cursed loudly. The light on his bolter switched on, and he heaved the heavy weapon back and forth across the librarium. The inquisitor and his servant were the only two present. Edoir had remained in the upper hive with Welth, trying to elicit a larger splinter of the PDF for the riot. So far, the local government seemed to care little for Inquisitorial authority, which was just something else on Timmett's ever-growing list of grievances with this tiresome hive world.

But with the sheer multitudes at stake, these grievances could be overlooked in the pursuit of salvation. Timmett knew something had to be done quickly, and he knew he was perhaps the only being on the world that had any kind of authority. To call for help meant far too much waiting – he wasn't sure he had nine days to spare to send an astropathic message to his Ordos Master, not to mention the possible weeks it could take for a detachment of soldiers to arrive.

Timmett looked at Rikk and nodded, and the pair hastily left the librarium. The street was filled with milling, panicking citizens. There were a great many complaints about the growing heat and stench. Shafts of light shot in haphazard directions from the crowd where they brought their own light sources out into the street tunnels with them.

Rikk made full show of his bolter to part the crowd on the way to their speeder, with Timmett trailing in his wake. When the speeder's engines whirred loudly to life, the surrounding crowd began to throw whatever they could find at it. The blinding high beams that shot out of the headlamps were blocked entirely by the muffling crowd which was surrounding the vehicle entirely. The citizens were shouting angrily at the speeder, demanding to know what was going on, demanding the power be turned back on.

"This is bad," Rikk said from the passenger's seat. "They're going to eat us alive."

"I don't think so," Timmett said, grimacing. "But we certainly are in a tight spot."

"We should have stayed in the librarium," Rikk said. The crowd had begun to rock the vehicle and bleat loudly, regardless of the superheated exhaust which eschewed from the vehicle's rear.

"That would have proved far more useless," Timmett replied.

"What then? You can't expect to run all these people down?"

Timmett looked at his cohort, who gave him a worried look.

From somewhere in the distance, a bloodcurdling scream of terror rang out over the angry ones. Timmett and Rikk snapped their heads around to look and as the one scream turned into multiple screams the crowd around their speeder did, too. There was a surge of motion from the back of the crowd that cascaded too slowly inwards towards the inquisitor's vehicle, forcing bodies against the speeder's metal frame.

"What the hell is going on?" Rikk asked aloud. A man outside his window slipped down out of view and the people around him began to trample him without heed. Rikk knew he wasn't the only one suffering in such a way.

"Emperor forgive me," Timmett said, and he gunned the accelerator. Bodies that were already pushed too close to the speeder either slipped under or rolled over top of the vehicle as it barreled towards the source of the disturbance. The crowd, unable to part before the rampaging speeder, was merely caught in the crossfire.

"Get ready to shoot," Timmett barked at the awestruck Rikk.

"At what?" Rikk asked, racking the slide on his bolter anyway.

"I don't know yet," replied Timmett as they broke through a thin spot in the crowd.

That's when they both saw it: men and women were being tackled in the streets by thin, desiccated creatures. Torn clothing hung loosely from their emaciated leathery bodies, the skin on their skeletal frames torn and peeling away in places. The smell penetrated the interior of the speeder immediately – the wretched stench of ancient fungus, left to decompose the bodies of heavily mutilated corpses.

"Shoot at those!" Timmett yelled, but Rikk needed no prompting.

The trained killer slid the window screen down and mounted his bolter on the window frame. With a quick movement he racked the slide to the rear again, ejecting the live bolter round that was already chambered. Timmett could feel the concussive impact of the blast from each explosive round the bolter fired out the window as Rikk opened up.

Slamming his foot down hard on the breaks, Timmett wrenched a hard left on the steering handle and then jammed his foot on the accelerator again. The speeder's tyres screeched on the ceramite road as the vehicle swung around, causing two of Rikk's shots to fly wide into the fleeing crowd. The inquisitor's cohort made a near instantaneous correction and the next flurry of rounds down range impacted and exploded in the backs of some of the attackers.

Timmett gunned the accelerator again, bringing the speeder to bear in on the apparent source of the attack: a hitherto closed subtransit station that was pouring out an endless stream of the emaciated monsters.

"By the throne!" cried Rikk. "They just keep coming!"

"Did you pack those krak grenades?" asked Timmett, shooting through the stream of creatures and running some of them down. Each one hit made a series of disgusting crunching noises as their bodies were obliterated beneath the speeder's heavy frame.

Rikk stopped firing and pulled a fist-sized green canister from a small pouch on his belt. He held it up so that Timmett could see it. "Like this one?"

Timmett slammed on the breaks again, but this turn was less successful given the resistance of enemy bodies. The tyres skidded and thumped over juicy bodies that made no screams of pain. The speeder struggled to get the traction to complete its turn, and finally came back around to face the oncoming horde.

"Sweet Golden Throne!" cried Rikk as he came face-to-face with the seething mass of monsters.

"Block up that tunnel!" yelled Timmett as they began to plow through the wall of bodies.

Rikk opened fire again, trying to clear a path that he could toss the krak grenade in, but it was no use.

"You're going to have to get me closer," he said, dropping his empty magazine and loading a fresh one. With a sideways glance over his shoulder, he chambered a round.

"Closer?" Timmett asked. Once clear of the onslaught, he banked the speeder right and then jerked it around in a wide U. The speeder screeched to a halt facing the backside of the invading monsters. "I love a good challenge."

The speeder's tyres peeled as Timmett accelerated straight towards the subtransit station entrance. Rikk dropped his seat back backwards and rolled into the rear passenger compartment. Sliding the windscreen aside with one hand, he brought the krak grenade up in his other. As they hit the stream of bodies, clawing creatures tried to force their way in through the hole Rikk had opened up. Rikk pulled the pin.

Rikk shoved the grenade in the mouth of one who looked like he was trying to eat the whole speeder and kicked it hard in the forehead. "Now!" he shouted.

Timmett pulled left as hard as he could, trying to push the already floored accelerator deeper. The speeder rocked as the concussion hit it, and then the sound followed. A deafening roar made Timmett and Rikk stop what they were doing and put their hands on their ears. Shrapnel and debris from the station slammed into the speeder's exhaust, and a second wave of concussion knocked the vehicle entirely over.

The rollover was cushioned by the wave of monsters that were still out of the station, though Rikk fell about the interior like a ragdoll as it spun. The loose bolter caught Timmett's left arm and it shattered. A loud bang sounded inside the cabin as the ejected bolt round Rikk had let fall sparked on the doorframe and went off. The rocket-propelled round exploded across the speeder's interior, catching Rikk's leg and taking it off at the kneecap.

With a lurch, the vehicle came to a halt on its roof.

Rikk screamed a long, painful scream and then kept screaming. Timmett shifted his weight in the driver's seat and let the safety belt go. His head slammed into the roof and his vision swam. The constant agonized yelling of his comrade barely kept him within the realm of conciousness, and the scratching pressing creatures outside the vehicle didn't even register in his brain.

"Merciful God-Emperor, Rikk!" Timmett complained as he righted himself uncomfortably in the driver's seat. "Shut the hell up!"

Rikk had managed to fumble around in his pockets for the auto-tourniquet stashed within. With shaking bloody hands he fitted it at the top of his thigh, in his crotch. His screams had become labored grunts as he forced himself to concentrate on saving his own life.

With the twist of a knob, the auto-tourniquet shrank around the warrior's fat leg. Rikk let out one more agonized yelp as the tourniquet clamped down hard enough to cause the blood to stop pouring from the open stump where his leg had once been.

"Now… what?" asked Rikk through gritted teeth.

Timmett looked at the cracked windows, outside of which were the kicking legs of hundreds of monsters still left in the tunnel around the vehicle. He reached over and slid the passenger side window shut. His vision still swimming a little, he put a hand to his head.

"We get out of this place."


	7. Chapter Six

**Hive 13**

Despite Madame Ulster's insistent pleading, Quind forced his way back towards the private rooms. He could feel the air becoming chillier, and his feet crunched ominously over the frost that had begun to condense on the carpet during the psychic meeting. After twenty minutes of complete silence, the inquisitor had decided that his prize psyker was at extreme risk.

Repentant lightly plucked Madame Ulster off of Quind's arm and set her behind him. Without a word, he held up a single finger in warning and the old woman stopped pressing forward. Repentant turned and followed up behind his master who had taken position outside the door to the first room.

Quind gave Repentant a glance, and the massive bodyguard readied his heavy stubber and aimed it at the door. The long barrel barely fit across the hallway. The inquisitor tested the handle: it was open. He held up three fingers, then two, one and threw the door wide open. Repentant was instantly inside, sweeping with his stubber, scanning for targets. The room was empty.

"Clear," Repentant told Quind as he exited the private chamber.

"This is going to take too long," said Quind, looking down the hallway. "Stand back a moment."

Quind pulled the book strapped to his belt out of its loop and cracked it open, leafing quickly through the pages. Somewhere was the chant to find his servant, the faithful thrall that had given himself to Quind in the name of the Holy God-Emperor. He stopped shuffling through the pages and told Repentant to stand back as he began to read from the tome.

The walls groaned, and the lights flickered. The already chill air became unbearably frigid, and the glass in picture frames along the wall shattered. The glolamps along the corridor began to pop one by one, but the wicks stayed lit burning furiously in the ice cold.

The second-to-last door in the hallway began to glow a deep red, as though it were burning, and Quind stopped his chant. The lights blinked out instantly, and warmth crept slowly back into the air. The sound of a thunderous crash of a body through solid wood reverberated down the hall. The doorframe exploded in purple flames, shooting a fireball into the corridor and lighting it up.

Quind dived, catching a glimpse of Delander's twisted and pulped corpse crumpled at the end of the hall as it was engulfed by the psychic flame. Behind the inquisitor, Repentant stepped forward and the flames pushed back.

"Penitent!" shouted Repentant as he waved the stubber in the direction of the door.

"Quiet, Repentant," Quind hissed as he got up.

The purple flames burned slowly, turning red as the psychic energy left them. The stench of baked flesh coiled through the corridor, which had begun to sweat visibly as the ice melted from the walls. The air was thick and humid, black smoke curling on the ceiling, looking for a way out.

Quind pushed past Repentant, drawing Bloodculler and activating it. It's hungry hum and the vibration of the chainblade in the Inquisitor's hand reassured him.

Quind reached out with his mind, searching for his servant. But his will was just not strong enough by itself.

A figure stumbled out of the shattered doorway at the end of the hall, coughing throatily. Quind could clearly make out the various steel piercings on Penitent's head as he looked up to see his master and his colleague. His white beard had been significantly shortened, singed by the psychic inferno, but his face remained dark in the gloomy hallway.

"Modus Pons is dead," said Penitent.

"Well that solves that then," replied Repentant as he lowered his stubber. "Thank the Emperor you're alright."

"My praises to Him are most high," said Penitent, "but I did not escape unscathed."

Quind walked forwards towards his servant and caught his face for the first time in the flickering firelight. He switched off Bloodculler and dropped it at his feet. Tears welled in his eyes as he grabbed Penitent's burned head and put it to his own.

"What have they done to you?" asked Quind.

Penitent's skin was gray with decay. It flaked off in delicate pieces across his cheeks, arms and neck. He felt weak in Quind's grasp, and his eyes had begun to pale white. Already Quind could see that the skin on his face had begun to pull tight, and the psyker was struggling to keep his lips together over his mouth. His eye sockets and cheeks seemed more sunken, his brow heavier.

"They infected me," said Penitent.

********

Penitent's body was laid down on the gurney carefully, now little more than a frail wasted frame of his former self. His robes had come loose, and his skin had turned from white to a festering brown, as though he had been long since dead. His now milky eyes still opened occasionally and he muttered feverishly in his coma. At times his frail body lashed out on the gurney, trying to sit up, so the medicae personnel that were attending him had to strap him down.

Quind sat beside his friend in the medicae vehicle as it raced towards the apothecarium. The best functioning one was half a district away and the medicae personnel had already given him a disturbingly short life expectancy.

Repentant had taken the motorbike Penitent had rented back to the dealer. He would be waiting at their hideout when Quind returned with news of their colleague.

"This is the twelfth case we've handled this week," said one of the medicae personnel, a short stocky man with a bushy moustache. He wore a large set of optical augmetics that would allow him to perform field surgery accurately if necessary.

"Twelve cases?" asked Quind incredulously.

"And not a cure yet," added the driver, a small woman with chopped black hair.

"We've had to, erm," the short medicae hesitated, not quite sure how to say his piece lightly, "exterminate them. For their own benefit."

Quind's eyebrow raised.

Penitent began to mutter something coherently. Both Quind and the medicae leaned in close to hear it.

"…was born into the black tides of chaos, and Your Holiest of Holy Lights brings me to your side. Through the warp I have done horrid things, for which I now correct myself. That is why I am named Penance, for I forever serve Your Will to atone for the heresies of my birthright."

Quind gently pushed the medicae aside and laid a single hand on Penitent's forehead.

"Ichnee Ymgard," the Inquisitor said softly. Penitent's eyelids cracked open to reveal the milky orbs underneath. "You have served the God-Emperor of Mankind well, and have earned an honorable place by his side. The path of your life took you to the gates of the Archenemy, but instead of entering as a comrade to their dark purpose you entered as a spy on behalf of your true brethren."

Penitent's eyes slid closed, and he wheezed gently on the gurney.

"You have made your penance," Quind told him. "By the authority vested in me, I return to you your name, Ichnee Ymgard. May you go to the Emperor in peace."

Quind removed the las pistol from Penitent's robes and uttered a small prayer. The medicae took note and moved away from the Inquisitor, chanting the prayer of deliverance to himself at the back of the ambulance.

Penitent's chest came up in a shallow movement. It fell with a quiet whisper as he breathed his last breath.

Quind placed the barrel of the las pistol on Penitent's carotid artery angled up into the brain. He felt the neck muscles tighten under the las pistol as the unholy taint of the warp began to take hold of Penitent's body and squeezed the trigger.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Hive 37**

**304.415.M41**

The quivering form of Loren Vince curled into a ball, peeking between fingers at her impending fate. Her features were gaunt, her deep crimson robes baggy on her frame. The cryptic eldritch designs on her bald skull had only recently been tattooed – what seemed now to have been a waste of time. Just like her predecessors, Loren was unable to satisfy the needs of her master, the Unholy Carcass.

Now the Carcass glared at her from its empty eye sockets. Its crown was grossly malformed and covered in putrid green skin. Vile pus-spewing sores pocked its skull, and its mandible hung slack so that its dry and rotted throat was exposed. It wore great white robes that were stained with blood, urine and excrement that had ejaculated from its host. The robes curled on the floor below the Carcass's dangling feet; it hovered a half meter off the ground in front of Loren. The Carcass was the carrier of plagues, and he was now very surly.

Loren shivered visibly.

"It should be no great task," the Carcass intoned, though his jaw still hung slack, "to acquire control of the spaceport."

The Carcass's voice was thick and low, echoing around the black sanctuary of the lower hive chapel with palpable malice.

"No great task at all, sire," quaked Loren from her fetal position. "We had gained control of the spaceport, but we hit a snag."

"An Inquisitor leading a force of PDF to recapture the spaceport is far more than just a snag, Loren," the Carcass said. Though there was no edge to his voice in her ears, his words stung her mind. "I laid everything out for you, put the pieces in the right places. The entire planet is on the brink of being entirely under my control. The other cells have taken spaceports in Hives 13, 22, 74, and 91."

"We are still sending waves of zombies at the spaceport," Loren insisted. "They cannot hold forever."

"They will hold long enough for Imperial Guard to arrive," said the Carcass. "And when that is not enough to match my power, we shall clash with the Adeptus Astartes."

Loren's eyes widened in fear. "The Astartes will come here?"

"And when the Astartes come here," the Carcass said, "my Grandfather will be _very_ displeased."

********

Timmett ducked for cover behind a hololith that once displayed a map of the Hive 37 spaceport. He wasn't entirely sure why he needed to duck for cover, but reloaded his bolt pistol all the same. When he came up he drew in again the full spectrum of horrors that had befallen the Hive's only off-world escape route.

Across the terminal, thousands of clawing, moaning zombies surged forward in an endless ocean of attackers: the entire lower hive and half of the middle hive had been infected and now pushed themselves without heed on the Inquisitor and the dwindling PDF force he had managed to take control of.

The Hive 28 Ironsights were one of the finest PDF regiments on the planet, boasting more IG transfers than any other regiment on the hive world. 17th Company's new commander, Sergeant Xander, had been beset by the charging zombie hordes while deployed to the fashion district of Formal E, mid-level hive. Timmett had found them on his escape with Rikk to return to Edoir and Welth, whom he never made contact with. Rikk had been using the spaceport vox to try to raise them for the past half hour.

At first Timmett's instinct had been to fire haphazardly into the mob of oncoming attackers, but like the Ironsights he learned quickly that a headshot was a guaranteed kill shot and everything else would just subdue their enemies for a while. For the purposes of conserving ammo, Sergeant Xander had ordered the Ironsights to do what they excelled at: sharpshooting headshots.

As Timmett's bolter barked out death for twenty more hungry zombies he reflected how insanely lucky he was to find the Hive 28 Ironsights instead of any other regiment. Of course there were perhaps only thirty five men left of 17th Company now, but at least Timmett knew they were the best of the best. The Emperor Protects.

The Emperor…

Timmett dropped the now empty magazine and pulled the last twenty-rounder from his shoulder harness. He turned to the nearest Ironsight, a young Corporal who was taking his time with a long-las that was not standard PDF issue.

"You, Corporal," Timmett barked. "Where is the Astropathica Guild at?"

The Corporal took one more shot and looked up at the Inquisitor above him.

Timmett was roughed up and still wearing the gilded cuirass he had arrived in four days earlier. There were tears in his trousers and scratches on his arms and neck, but his face was deadly serious.

The Corporal pointed to a small service entrance off the side of the terminal that had a sign on it warning death to unauthorized personnel. Without saying a word, he reacquired his sight picture in the long-las rifle's powerful scope and continued picking off zombies.

Timmett began to walk hurriedly towards the service door.

"Alfaron!" called Rikk across the cacophony of gunfire. "I got a hold of Edoir on the vox. He's bringing Welth; they're on their way."

Timmett gave his wounded colleague a thumbs up and trudged on to the door. Behind him, Rikk hopped over to a support sentinel that he had 'acquired' from a maintenance hangar. With the help of some of the more ingenious PDF soldiers he had managed to attach a multi melta to one arm.

As Timmett reached the door, he heard Rikk open up with the overpowering roar of the multi melta. The Inquisitor tried the handle. Locked.

Casually, he fished the multikey out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The arbites had become far too lax on this planet.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Hive 13**

Hallowcan. Normally this special holiday denoted the banishment of daemons by the Saint Sahmain during the middle years of the Heresy. Saint Sahmain made a deal with the daemons, granting them one evening to appear and pester the people of his world and then they would be banished forever. The story holds that Sahmain told his people to dress as imps and daemons, so the annoying fiends could not tell his people from other daemons.

Quind stood on the balcony of an impossibly high tower of Hive 13's upper level. The morning sun glowed a weak yellow through the heavily sick ozone which polluted the planet like a fungus. Bizmoe had been rotting physically for years but no one had said anything. Now it was rotten spiritually; rotten to the core.

The bloated might of the Imperium had turned a blind eye upon Bizmoe's mounting problems. Except for Inquisitor Quind. He saw the problems, but it was too late when he did. And now he had lost one of his dearest friends and servants, a man who had served him faithfully for years. Quind did not normally tolerate the notion of revenge. He felt it was base and animalistic. But now so were his enemies base and animalistic.

It would be too easy for him to call an Exterminatus on this accursed world and do the Imperium a favor. But Quind didn't know that an Exterminatus would work on these not-quite-living monsters that clawed ever closer to the surface of Hive 13. Quind may not have had contacts outside of this hive but he knew that if left alone the rest of the planet would easily fall victim.

Behind him on the balcony, Repentant stepped forward and placed his hand on Quind's shoulder. Quind winced slightly under the uncomfortable feeling he received just from the blank's touch.

"We must make a decision now," Repentant said. "I will follow whatever choice you make; to my end if necessary. If the Emperor wills it, let it be done."

Quind stood silently for a moment without looking back at his colleague. When he turned, his gaze was firm and his jaw set. "We will make a call to the Ordos. Then we will wait for an answer."

"Eighteen days' wait," Repentant reminded Quind.

"We will figure something out," Quind said.

"The Emperor wills it," said Repentant.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Hive 37**

The Guild Astropathica was of course empty. The overturned chairs and tables, cogitators ripped from their mounts on desks, and low-burning candles indicated a hasty retreat from the guild hall that was built into the spaceport terminal.

Timmett stepped carefully over the strewn contents of a desk that had been hastily emptied of its sensitive items before escape. At his feet was a pict of a man and his two sons. They were smiling, laughing over a game of regicide.

The alarm had gone off as soon as the power had shut off in the mid-level. Those that couldn't flee from the spaceport attempted to make their way to neighboring Hive 36 or 38 and were caught in the zombie onslaught. Practically the entire hive was against Timmett and the Ironsights at this point.

The Inquisitor stopped and looked at the bolt pistol in his hand. Even with all of the madness surrounding this situation, this guild hall was a sanctum. He slowly holstered his weapon under his left arm and stood straight up, looking around him at his destroyed surroundings.

"Inquisitor," a feminine voice called from the far side of the chamber. "I have been expecting you."

Timmett's attention snapped to when he heard the voice and his first instinct was to reach for the bolt pistol he had so foolishly just holstered. But just as his hand reached the grip of his weapon, he stopped. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, but he forced himself to concentrate, to breathe.

"Who are you?" asked Timmett. His voice seemed hoarser than he imagined it would.

"I am the one who stayed behind to allow you to call for help," replied the voice. "My name is Kia, and I have a peculiar talent for seeing things."

Timmett lowered his hand but his muscles didn't relax.

"I need to send a message to Lord High Inquisitor Tothor on Gideron," Timmett told Kia.

"I knew you would need to send a message to someone important," Kia replied.

Finally Timmett caught movement at the far side of the chamber, and a small woman with curled gray hair and milky blue eyes stepped out from behind an overturned desk. Timmett might have thought her a ratling if she were fatter. She wore a young girl's robe that was bright purple, the sleeves just a little too long and the waist just a little too loose so that she appeared almost to be an infant wearing an adult's clothing. Her features were lined, but she had a youthfulness to her that bespoke her true age. She couldn't have been more than sixteen but she was already so damaged by the warp that she appeared almost sixty.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You seem awfully tense."

"Should I be?" Timmett answered. "It is in my nature to be suspicious."

"I know," said Kia simply. She smiled, a cute innocent smile that said nothing of the horrors she had no doubt witnessed due to her abilities.

Timmett forced himself to relax a little, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly through his nose. His shoulders stayed square and his jaw remained set. Kia giggled.

"I never expected a real inquisitor to actually be so…"

"What?" Timmett raised an eyebrow.

"Damn formal," Kia finished. "With all your connections to the warp and everything."

"I don't know what kind of inquisitors you've been reading about, Kia, but we tend to avoid direct connections to the warp whenever possible. We combat the horrors that try to invade humanity from the warp, not convene with them."

"Call it what you like," Kia said, shrugging. "At some point or another you will have a connection to those horrors to the point that it will kill you."

"I see," said Timmett. He decided it was time to change the subject. "You can send my message?"

"I absolutely can," Kia replied, her girlish smile widening so that the lines on her face made her look all the older. "Come right this way."

********

Karkiss looked over the terminal with disgust. Thousands of his minions seethed in through the doors but he gained no ground. He would have to end this personally, which was an act he loathed. He had so much to oversee as the conqueror of the planet Bizmoe, and this pathetic Inquisitor and his band of pesky PDF were no real match for the daemon-host and his army of the undead.

Annoyance bubbled up inside his congealed blood and chunky green pus boiled out of the sores that covered his body. Karkiss reached up and plucked out the rat that had made home in one of his empty eye sockets, crushing its head and neck with his bony fingers. Hot crimson blood gushed from between his digits and he threw the rat's body to the ground below him.

Loren Vince, who stood slightly behind her master, quickly reached down and picked up the rat's corpse. With a hungry growl, she began to feast on it.

Karkiss paid her no mind as he began to float towards the spaceport terminal.

Behind him Karkiss heard the crack of a long las and he spun around to see what the commotion was all about. Loren Vince lay sprawled on the ground, half of her head missing and the remaining contents spread in a long trail pointing towards the terminal. Another crack and a brilliant red bolt of energy screamed into the daemon-host's chest. It fizzled and left a smoking black hole in the daemon-host's robes but otherwise failed to harm the putrescent fiend.

In an instant Karkiss was on top of the sniper. He glared down at her with his empty soulless eye sockets and smiled an evil grin. He wanted her to know she was going to die, and die painfully.

The sniper, a young woman with bright purple eyes, met his glare fearlessly. She raised her long las again, and fired.

The shot fizzled off of Karkiss's head and popped a boil that had been waiting to ooze out for some time. Karkiss's eyebrows raised in amusement as the sniper woman fired again. The daemon-host grabbed the barrel of the long las and pulled the weapon out of the sniper's grip.

"It is not every day that a human can look upon the form of a daemon-host and not shit their pants instantly," Karkiss told the woman.

Disarmed, the woman took a step back and drew a very long serrated combat knife from a holster on her hip. Karkiss flicked his hand and the blade rusted and dissolved in her grip.

"Tell me," Karkiss said as he came very close to the woman. "Tell me just who the warp do you think you are?"

The woman punched Karkiss very hard, entirely dislocating his already slack jaw. Teeth and pus went flying.

"My name is Carla Welth," the woman said. "And today is your unlucky day."

Karkiss floated backwards a little with the recoil. He had never let anyone hit him before. He would never let anyone hit him again.

"Die, Carla Welth," Karkiss said.

As the daemon-host said the words, Carla doubled over and threw up. Her skin paled and her hair thinned and fell out. She coughed and threw up again, dry heaving as the rest of the bile in her stomach drained from her system. Her muscle mass withered and decayed, her skin pulled tight across her bones. She looked up at the daemon-host with her now cataract-covered eyes. In them burned not pain, but hatred. Karkiss knew that if she could speak she would be cursing him. But it didn't matter. Carla Welth was likely just one of the Inquisitor's agents, well-trained to handle the horrors of the warp. But at the end of the day, she was just human.

Karkiss turned and began his descent on the terminal.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Hive 13**

Repentant adjusted his rack and hooked the ammo drum on the side of his heavy stubber. He counted his frag grenades a third time to ensure he hadn't lost any. He still had six. Setting his heavy stubber aside, he pulled his large black robe on over his rack and hung a golden chained necklace with the Inquisitorial rosette around his massive neck.

Beside him, Quind was putting lubricant in the chamber of his autogun. He wore the bulky black power armor, now fully charged and ready for his final battle. Full magazines lined the belt that was strapped around his waist, and Bloodculler rested hungrily in its sheath.

Repentant checked the plugs and mountings on their pict servitor, Vassal 7. The mechanical man's pict recorder was already blinking its red record light. Their last moments amongst the undead would be recorded on this pict servitor so that Quind's final assault on the Wounds of the Empire could be recovered when Bizmoe's conquest had been discovered.

Without words, Quind locked and loaded his weapon and left the apartment. The Guild Astropathica was quite a distance from the outer tower where he and his servant were holing up. Since the death of Penitent, Quind had retreated to the top level of the hive and Repentant had almost been sure that they would make their escape through Hive 13's spaceport. True, it was now common knowledge that the zombie menace had overrun the spaceport. But with Modus Pons dead the pair had no strong leads on who was the head of Wounds of the Empire anymore.

Repentant realized that it was unlikely that the Guild Astropathica had any remaining astropaths that could send a message off world. Repentant could see in his master's eyes that he, too, seemed to think this a fool's errand. Repentant knew that deep in Quind's soul he wanted to be seen for what he truly was: a pillar of Imperial virtue. True, his methods were sometimes questionable. True, some innocents had fallen on the path to righteousness. But everything had been done with the betterment of the Empire as the end product.

Vassal 7 would ensure that Quind's name was at least remembered as honorable amongst his colleagues after he fell.

As the three figures left the tower lobby the quiet morose tones of the matins chimed through the hive tunnels. The previously teeming streets of Hive 13 were impossibly empty, an evacuated warzone with no battle damage. Speeders remained parked and dormant along the pathways, the tall black street lights that provided the hive's dull illumination still burned against the ever-dark of the permanent indoor night. Signs in shop windows indicated that they were closed, as though they would open normally in just a few hours. Repentant felt a chill run up his spine. He had never seen an empty hive before. It was as though the entire population had been obliterated while he and his master weren't looking.

Quind looked at the heavily-armored black speeder he had brought to Bizmoe and ran his hand along the hood. The Inquisitorial seal was stamped above the driver's front wheel housing so that it was visible only upon inspection. The plate glass windscreen was reinforced to withstand the impact of a five-pound explosive device. Despite its numerous defenses, this would certainly be its last journey.

Quind placed his autogun inside the vehicle and called Repentant to the back so they could lift the miniature mine plow out of the trunk. Although it usually served no great purpose, the bulldozer mount was included with the vehicle's basic load for combat situations. Quind had procured the speeder from a backwater world's PDF and had it styled to his liking there. Since then he took it with him wherever he went.

It took only a moment to hook the mine plow onto the front of the vehicle, all the while Vassal 7 looked on blankly. When they were finished, Repentant picked Vassal 7 up and shoved the servitor unceremoniously in the back seat.

Quind keyed the ignition and the engine turned over. The Inquisitor looked up at his servant.

"Aerin Klos," Quind started to say.

"Don't," interrupted Repentant. "It's not time yet. And if I go, I want to go as Repentant, not as Aerin Klos. Aerin Klos can never atone for his sins."

Quind nodded wordlessly and floored the accelerator.

********

The battle begun only two blocks from the hab tower the group had just left from. Repentant had opened a hatch on the top of the vehicle and was unloading in all directions with his heavy stubber. Quind plowed mercilessly over the oncoming hordes of zombies with the large black speeder, the mine plow mincing the creatures at their knees and pushing them under the speeder's crushing tyres.

In the back seat Vassal 7 watched wordlessly as the mindless creatures clawed at the windows and doors, moaning and screeching without end. Quind grew tired of the sound, and switched on the radio.

The triumphant booming of an Imperial orchestra thundered out the tune _Colonel Tarin's Victory March_ inside the armored cabin, not quite managing to drown out the echoing moans of the assaulting monsters.

Quind shifted into the next highest gear and drove on. He looked at the auspex that was bouncing gently on the seat beside him. He was still thirty blocks away, at least. Two more turns and he would be head-on with the Astropathica building on file.

It was difficult to navigate through the river of bodies that the speeder was wading through. He had almost thought himself lost several times since leaving the hab tower, but stayed the course trusting his auspex. It was unlike him to put so much faith in Imperial electronics, but since Penitent's death he felt psychically numbed.

In the hatch, Repentant had switched to his bolt pistol while he reloaded the heavy stubber with one hand. The barrel of the stubber was white hot and needed to be replaced, but the Inquisitor and his cohort had no such supply. The moment or two of reloading time was the only cooldown it would get. As a trained gunner, Repentant hated working so dangerously. But given the circumstances he decided he'd rather his weapon explode and kill him than become one of those vile monstrosities.

Quind pulled his turn hard and Repentant lost his grip on the ammo can. It fell over on its side, spilling the linked rounds from the container and sliding into the crowd of zombies. They swallowed it instantly and Repentant knew the rounds were gone.

"Ammo!" he shouted to Quind.

"There's none left down here," Quind shouted back. "You shot all two thousand rounds already?"

"I just lost the last five hundred on that turn," Repentant explained.

"Well improvise," Quind answered.

Repentant shrugged and blasted a hole in the forehead of a zombie that had managed to climb onto the speeder's back. He fired again into the crowd, a misfire. He checked his bolt pistol – it was just an empty magazine. He dropped mag and changed out in time to catch another climber on the side. They were using each other as ladders now.

"They really want us dead," Repentant shouted over the booming orchestra.

"I really want them dead too," Quind shouted back. "Take my autogun if you need it."

Repentant pegged a few zombies that were trying to mount the driver's side. "You'll want it later."

"Another turn coming up," Quind announced.

"What?"

"Another turn coming up!"

"So?"

"I don't want you to lose any more ammo!"

Repentant blasted away several more undead and then switched magazines. "Don't sweat it, Boss!"

The speeder raced down the street, crushing the zombies with little resistance. Suddenly, a wide-bodied ghoul appeared through the crowd before vanishing underneath the passenger's side tyre which caught on his overlarge remains. The speeder pivoted on the fat creature's corpse and nearly rolled onto its side. A wide gap was opened behind the vehicle as it turned but was quickly filled in by a rush of hungry undead.

"What was that?" asked Repentant from the hatch.

"We hit a snag," answered Quind, flipping off the radio. The sound of howling ghouls returned to fill up the vehicle's cab. "Can you see it from up there?"

Repentant leaned over the side of the vehicle as far as he dared, but came too close to the grasping fingers of the zombies. He dispatched a few of them for good measure and tried for another look. It was impossible to see from his angle and the onslaught of zombies made it too dangerous to get a better one.

"What can you do with what you've got?" asked Repentant.

The tyres screeched on the pavement and shot rotted brown entrails into the back of the bulldozer that hung from the front of the vehicle.

"I thought that bulldozer was supposed to prevent that kind of thing from happening!" called the massive blank.

"It's supposed to clear mines, not zombies," said Quind as he put the vehicle in low reverse.

Repentant stopped blasting zombies for a moment as a shining star shot from a fifth-story window of a building down the street. Apart from the swarms of zombies that were charging the speeder, there seemed to be a gathering at the entrance of that building as well.

"Survivors!" Repentant said.

"What?"

"Survivors!" Repentant pointed excitedly to the flare that dropped onto a zombie and ignited it in the street. It continued its pressing assault unabated. The smell was horrendous.

Quind watched the flare fall on the zombie and followed the smoking arc it left behind. Some survivors of the Wounds of the Empire's attack had holed up on a high-level hab stack in hopes of rescue. For some reason they seemed to believe that Quind and Repentant were it.

"Seems to be our best option right now," Quind said to himself. He cranked the steering wheel all the way to the left and gunned the accelerator backwards. Finally the vehicle dislodged itself from the fat creature's remains and plowed over the zombies that were clawing and moaning behind it. The upper torso of the fat zombie continued to reach out for the vehicle, seemingly unaware that its lower half had been obliterated by the massive tyres of the offending speeder.

Shifting back into first, Quind once again plowed headlong through the stream of zombies, this time aiming at the monsters that were pushing and shoving at the door to the survivors' building.

"Look out!" cried Repentant from the hatch. Quind looked up to see a kitchen appliance – either a dishwasher or a stove – being shoved from the fifth-story window. It crushed a small group of the zombies pressing to get in, bouncing three meters back into the air as it fell apart. The debris fell back down into the crowd of monsters, taking a few more out but doing little other damage.

"Grenade!" cried Quind.

Without question, Repentant pulled a frag grenade off of his rack with a firm tug. The way he had it set up, the removal of the grenade from his rack also pulled the pin. The large man cocked back and chucked the grenade right into the doorway of the survivor's building. Repentant quickly ducked back into the hatch.

The explosion created a neat hole into which Quind parked the speeder. Quind leapt out through the passenger's door into the building while Repentant grabbed Vassal 7 from the back seat and threw him out after the inquisitor. As Repentant got out of the speeder a crawling monstrosity with its body severed below its armpits latched onto one of his ankles.

Repentant half-turned and put a bolt-round into the monstrosity's slack-jawed face. Only a dome with a gaping hole looked up at him, the mandible broken in half and most of the teeth on it missing. The creature's grip went slack.

Repentant moved the rest of the way into the building and heard The Bloodculler roar to life not far away. The hefty manservant pulled out his own close-combat weapon: a long serrated combat knife that he had acquired on his homeworld. He kept it for sentimental reasons mostly, and preferred to use either his bare fists or ranged weapons.

There were a few zombies that were milling around on the first floor and it only took a few quick slices from Bloodculler to dispatch them. The vehicle holding back the mobs outside was now being rocked by their multitudes and Repentant knew it wouldn't hold long.

"The fifth floor?" asked Quind.

Repentant nodded, and they made their way to the lift. Repentant hit the rune to call the lift, but nothing happened. He tried again.

"No power," Quind noted aloud. "We'll have to hoof it."

"I was really hoping you wouldn't say that," said Repentant as they made their way to the service stairs.

The building was in poorly condition, the black flakboard walls molding with age. The stairwell smelled of mildew, urine, and alcohol. Starting on the second flight of steps and leading up to the fourth flight was a trail of caked and dry blood. The lights were running on emergency power and flickered low light constantly. The rockcrete steps crumbled beneath Quind's power armored feet making the way all the more difficult for Repentant and Vassal 7 behind him.

When the trio reached the fifth floor they found the door barricaded with carious amounts of furniture that the residents had deemed heavy enough to hold back the horde. A voice called out to them from the other side.

"Are you there?" it asked. The voice seemed to belong to an elderly man, hoarse and quiet. At first Quind wasn't sure he heard it at all.

"I am Inquisitor Nethin Quind," announced Quind through the barricade. "You have no reason to fear me."

The distant sounds of the zombie moans from outside grew louder and the echoing slams of plodding footsteps reverberated up through the decaying stairwell.

"They're in," Repentant told Quind.

"If you'd please hurry," added Quind to the old man. "We'll have company soon."

Repentant readied his knife in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other. He only had this one last magazine and then he'd be completely spent. He hadn't expected to run dry so soon.

Quind listened closely and could hear the scraping of furniture sliding across the floor. After a moment, it stopped and Quind heard the old man clear his throat.

"Tell your friend to take a few steps down the stairs," the old man called.

"Are you serious?" asked Repentant. The zombies had already taken at least the first three flights and were pressing quickly upwards.

"Do it," instructed Quind.

Hesitantly, Repentant stepped down several steps into the stairwell.

In one rush, the furniture pulled away from the door and lined itself neatly along the hallway. Quind could see the old man standing by his lonesome in the hall, holding his hands up as though they were extensions of his psychic power.

"Let's go!" shouted Quind, and he darted inside. The sound of his footsteps clanged through the walls around him and he heard someone down the hall shriek. Repentant was right behind his master clutching Vassal 7 as though it were a doll, and Quind watched as the old man doubled over as Repentant came near.

"Repentant, into that room," ordered Quind. His manservant quickly obeyed, shutting the door behind him. "Can you put the furniture back? I'll help you."

The old man nodded and between the two psykers they replaced the furniture barricade in the doorway using telekinetic force. A moment later, wiry desiccated hands found holes amongst the furniture to grasp through. The reached hungrily for anyone who dared to get too close.

Quind turned to the old man and held out a gauntleted palm. The old man put a weak hand in it and they shook.

"Inquisitor Quind, I am Zelph Astrodus," the old man said. "You are lucky that one of us spotted your vehicle."

"It is good to meet you, Zelph, but tell me why it is that I am lucky?" asked Quind.

Zelph smiled up at the Inquisitor and patted his shoulder guard.

"Come into the den and I will explain," he said.

They proceeded into the hab that Repentant had ducked into and Quind saw the survivors who had signaled him. They were cleaner than he expected of refugees, though all clearly terrified to their wits' end. The hab was dark and smelled of the same rotting walls as the hallway, but there was an added smell of some kind of stew that was wafting in from an adjacent room.

"I didn't notice you at all," Zelph explained to Quind. "Because of your friend, of course. I have never met a real blank and I had gone my whole life believing them to be a myth."

Quind nodded. "So why am I lucky to be here with you then?"

"Well it's a damn sight better than down there with them," laughed Zelph. One of the survivors, an athletic young man with patchy stubble on his chin, nodded assent. "We have enough supply here to last for a year until help arrives."

"Do you have ammunition?" asked Repentant, holding up his bolt pistol.

"I'm afraid not," the young survivor answered him standing up. "I'm Titos Astrodus, Zelph's son. What my father means is that we have food, water, and power for a year."

"And if help never comes?" asked Quind.

"Then may the Emperor take us," said Zelph.

Quind looked at the other survivors. Most were old, scared men and women who had been lucky enough to shack up with their neighbor. Some were small children and their mothers. They numbered perhaps twenty altogether, and there seemed to be no strong male leadership besides Zelph and his son.

"Tell me," Zelph said, placing his hand on Quind's shoulder guard again, "just where in the warp were you two headed at a time like this?"

"The Guild Astropathica," answered Quind. "I need to send a message for help."

Zelph nodded his face suddenly grave. "The Guild has been overrun. There is only one survivor, and he is not at the Guild hall."

"How do you know this?" Quind asked.

"Where is he then?" Repentant asked simultaneously.

Titos stood beside his father. "You're looking at him," said the young man. "My father is the one surviving member of the Guild Astropathica."

Quind's jaw nearly dropped. "Truly the Emperor guides us all with his light," he said. "You can send a message off world?"

The old man looked at his son, then back at Quind. He nodded quietly.

"Look!" one of the children had wandered over to the window during all the commotion and was pointing wildly down at the street. "Look!"

Quind, Zelph, Titos, and Repentant all moved to the windows at once, looking down into the street five stories below. It was flooded with zombies, all of them pouring into the building over the overturned black speeder that Quind had loved so much.

"There's no way out of here, Boss," Repentant said. "We may as well settle in."


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Hive 37**

**305.415.M41**

It was the early morning after Hallowcan. The battle for the terminal raged on. The Ironsights were using the last of their ammo, still achieving headshots as if it were a simple task. Rikk plodded around in the sentinel, kicking and stepping on as many of the creatures as he could. His multi-melta had long since run out of ammunition.

Timmett's left arm still throbbed where the bone was broken. There was nothing he could do for it beyond the hasty splint that he had made after sending his message via meme-wave to Lord Tothor. With the dwindling supply the Inquisitor knew that he would not survive to see a reply. This early in the morning, he wished he had called for Exterminatus.

The constant wails of their attackers had become meaningless white noise now. Timmett almost didn't notice when it died away.

He was sitting on a bench in the terminal looking away from the primary entry point the zombies were using to enter the terminal. When he looked around he saw the scattered black and brown mush of hundreds of zombie corpses lying across the tiled floor. Rikk was plodding back up towards the Ironsights' front line.

Was it possible? Had Hive 37 actually run out of zombies?

The inquisitor stood and turned to face the entry way fully. Some of the Ironsights were cheering in front of him. His stomach turned uneasily and he caught a different stench in the air than the ruined mush-pile of slain zombies. He smelled sickness and decay, the stench of ammonia and the coppery taste of blood. The cheering Ironsights smelled it too, and stopped cheering. One of them wretched.

Timmett knew this smell. He had encountered it before on Lemdis. It was the precursor to the Archenemy in its horrid and abused host. Karkiss had come to kill Inquisitor Timmett.

When the floating corpse-like daemon-host entered the terminal the Ironsights fled in fear. Rikk seemed frozen in the sentinel. Karkiss's head lolled lazily in Rikk's direction, and the machine began to rust and wither visibly. Inside the machine, Rikk wasted away to bones.

Timmett stepped forward, staring past the terrified faces of the young PDF soldiers that ran past him on either side. He only had eyes for Karkiss.

"So this is it," Timmett said, holding his arms open wide. His left arm pained him but he kept it held out. "This is the end-game?"

Karkiss closed the distance between itself and the inquisitor. He got close enough that he could put his rotten skull in Timmett's face.

"You've killed everyone," Timmett said. "You're going to kill me. Fine. But this is not the end, Karkiss. There are others like me."

"And when the Adeptus Astartes arrive, I shall kill them, too," Karkiss finally said. His words burned in Timmett's ears, as though Karkiss was reaching into them and scratching his ear canals with tiny claws. Timmett strengthened his resolve and stared the daemon-host in its empty eye-sockets.

"The Emperor pro-" Timmett never finished. His body withered just as Rikk's had done, the skin flaking off and exposing his drying intestines. His eyeballs cataracted and shriveled in their eye sockets, his tongue sliding back down his throat and into his desolate windpipe. The crumbling form of Alfaron Timmett fell to its knees before slumping sideways and smashing to dust on the floor.

"Worthless," Karkiss said. It turned around.

In the doorway to the terminal stood the small frame of Edoir, his eyelids freshly clipped off and a smile permanently on his face thanks to metal pins that were jabbed into his cheekbones.

"I agree," the savant said. "He didn't even fight back."


	13. Unreceived Communique

**To Alfaron Timmett, a communiqué**

**Carried by Guild Astropathica (Clideon) via meme-wave 568~y.921 double intra**

**Path detail:**

**Origin: Gideron, Clideon Sub 73425 origin date: 314.415.M41**

**(relayed: divergent M-17/Bastion)**

**Received: MESSAGE AWAITS RECEPTION (current date 081.416.M41)**

**Transcript carried and logged as per header**

**(redundant copy filed buffer 44271 key 8)**

_**Author: Lord Inquisitor Drevor Halls Tothor**_

_** Master of the Ordo Malleus Sagittarius Extremis,**_

_** Inquisition High Council Officio, Sagittarius Extremis Sector**_

_My faithful servant,_

_ While I understand your lack of willingness to call for an exterminatus it is with knowledge of your competence that the Inquisition has granted you license to call it upon Bizmoe should the situation worsen. Because of our longstanding relationship of trust I have contacted my colleagues in the Ordo Hereticus to take care of the problem on Bizmoe._

_ I would like you to contact Inquisitor Quind if he has not contacted you already and have you withdraw to Gideron for debrief. The cases you are falling are frankly no longer under the jurisdiction of the Ordo Malleus. I would recommend that you make your withdrawal sooner rather than later, as Lady Inquisitor Crissine Berris of the Ordo Hereticus hinted to me that it is likely she would send the Adepta Sorroritas to sort out the mess._

_ I hope this message finds you in good health._

_The Emperor Protects._

_Lord Inquisitor D.H. Tothor,_

_Master of the Ordo Malleus Sagittarius Extremis_

[message ends]


End file.
